


I Am the Storm

by LuckyZiri



Series: Ends of the Earth [3]
Category: BNA: Brand New Animal (Anime)
Genre: Alternate History, Angst, Blood & Injury, But also, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Child Death, Found Family, Gen, Gore, Hanging, Heavy Angst, Historical, Historical Fantasy, Magic, Ogami Shirou is bad at feelings, One Shot, PTSD, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Sad Ending, Self-Harm, Shirou's Backstory, Spoilers, Survivor Guilt, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, Worldbuilding, also in a flashback and not graphic, an attempt was made, but not really bc we know what happens after, in a flashback and not graphic, one shot series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26361307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyZiri/pseuds/LuckyZiri
Summary: Shirou and Michiru begin their road trip across the world, first stopping in Seoul, South Korea. A storm hits, forcing them inside for the first few hours of their arrival, and Shirou takes the opportunity to continue the Story of Abiyad. He describes his journey to find the general who murdered his family and how he traveled across the Sea of Marmara with a vengeful sailor and her all-female crew, all while learning to control his new powers.[Part 3 in the Ends of the Earth Series]
Relationships: Kagemori Michiru & Ogami Shirou
Series: Ends of the Earth [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1848598
Comments: 13
Kudos: 50





	I Am the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> **IMPORTANT NOTICE!!**  
>  Please read the previous installments of this series before reading this one! You will be confused if you don't. Also PLEASE read the content warnings in the tags before continuing. Thank you!!  
> \--  
> Song that greatly inspired this installment: 'Thousand Eyes' by Of Monsters and Men

Shirou hated planes. Always had. 

When the Americans invented them in the early 20th century, he’d paid little attention, because honestly, humans flying? The absurdity of it all. 

But no, the assholes had to take over the skies just like they did everything else. Bird Beastmen no longer ruled the air, and laws were put into place to keep them from migrating.

So when Michiru insisted they take a plane to get to their first destination, he almost walked right back into the Co-Op. Which resulted in her and Kuro trying to drag him out. She’d already bought tickets—from Marie of all people—and their flight left tomorrow.

Fantastic. Wonderful.

The plane was cramped with mostly humans, and their scents made Shirou’s skin crawl. Their very presence would seep into his pores, linger in his hair, and he’d never get the smell out. He didn’t have Kuro for comfort since animals weren’t allowed; the crow was forced to travel in storage.

Michiru was in human form—she’d been practicing on maintaining it longer—and she kept her student ID that still said she was a human. Shirou had all kinds of fake IDs, though most were out of date because he hadn’t left Anima City since it was founded, and therefore saw no reason to renew them. But before they’d left, Natalia had issued him a new passport.

He glared at it as they sat by the window.

_Ogami Shirou. Sex: Male. Born: November 26, 1997._

Hah.

Michiru peered over his arm. “Oh! Is your birthday actually in November?”

“No.”

“Oh. Dang it.”

He side-eyed her, but she’d put her AirPods in and already jammed to some teenager song. It wasn’t ‘Night Running’; she played that so often that he actually knew the words to it now. Some other grossly annoying pop song.

Oh god, probably Nazuna’s.

Their flight would take them to Seoul, South Korea. Shirou hadn’t traveled there in…honestly he didn’t know how long. Before the Korean War, at least, so in his head he still had a difficult time separating the peninsula into two countries. 

Once they were on the mainland, he hoped Michiru would be okay with them traveling by car. Or boat. Anything but this stupid metal bird that made him want to vomit.

“Are you okay?” Michiru removed one of the AirPods, brown eyes worried. “You look a little sick.”

He wore a hoodie—wearing a trenchcoat was a little weird in modern society, especially when boarding a plane—and pulled the hood further over his eyes. “I’m fine.”

She offered him the AirPod. “Wanna listen?”

Normally he’d say no, but the human smells were starting to overwhelm him, and a distraction was warranted at this point.

He took it. “Thanks.”

“Do you want me to play anything specific?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Mozart.”

“What! For real?”

A shrug.

“Ugh. You’re so weird. Okay, fine.”

“I knew Mozart, you know.”

She nearly spat all over the seat in front of her. “ _Huh?_ You’re joking. Stop it.”

That got a smirk out of him, and he adjusted the bud so it wouldn’t fall out. “I’m kidding. Mozart was a human, and I didn’t really pay attention to what their musicians were doing at the time.”

She rolled her eyes and shuffled through her phone for something to listen to. “How about…this?”

Soothing, classical music filled his left ear, not Mozart, but he wasn’t complaining. It did help, and as the plane took to the skies, he didn’t feel like he was going to throw up all over the elderly woman in front of them. The flight would be short, just shy of two hours.

He could make it two hours. Maybe.

Luckily, no one tried to talk to them, not even the flight attendant. Michiru kept the music going, and Shirou spent that time trying to come up with a plan of action once they landed. They already had reservations at a hotel, and Michiru had made a list of places she wanted to visit.

This was not a vacation.

At all.

But what else were they supposed to do? Natalia specifically told him that morning: “Don’t do anything rash. Just have fun for once, then move on in a couple of days.”

Bullshit. Seoul had almost ten million people living in it. Not as big as Tokyo, but far bigger than Anima City. There _had_ to be Beastmen who needed his help.

But once the plane landed, they ran into a problem Shirou hadn’t foreseen until they got off: Michiru only spoke Japanese and limited English.

Which meant he would have to do most of the talking.

Great.

“Since when do you speak Korean?” Michiru hissed. She dragged her luggage behind her, a gaudy pink and blue thing that sported too many keychains. “Wait, don’t answer that. I bet you speak a ton of languages don’t you?”

Shirou snorted. “More than you could name, probably.”

“Oh really? Like what?”

They shuffled down the crowded streets, and Shirou felt like he was going to melt right out of his skin. So many _humans._ Gods, he hadn’t been around them in so long. Their scents were overpowering, each one demanding his attention. If he were to morph right now, he might just get knocked out from it all.

He tried to keep his focus by entertaining Michiru. “Kurdish, for one.”

She made a noise like she was choking. “ _Kurdish?_ No one speaks Kurdish but the Kurds!”

He let out a long sigh and grabbed her upper arm, keeping her close. “Stay beside me. I don’t trust a single human in this place.”

She fell silent, hoisting a patchwork bag further up her shoulder as she clung to his sleeve. “Okay.”

Their hotel wasn’t that far. Shirou exchanged their Japanese yen for South Korean won before checking in—and thank God the hotel clerk spoke English because his Korean was rusty as hell—and once in their room, Michiru flopped onto the nearest bed. It was a medium sized room with two queen sized beds, a TV, a desk, a single bathroom, a kitchen-like area, and a balcony that overlooked the city.

Not bad. Natalia had good taste, and while this place was crawling with humans, Shirou thought he caught the faint whiff of Beastmen. If they were nearby, they were keeping a low profile.

Michiru morphed, bouncing on her tail as she rolled across the bed and toward the bathroom. “Shirou, there’s a whole bathtub!”

“Hey, don’t morph,” he drawled, but she already raced past him toward the balcony. He snatched her by the back of her shirt, making her choke. “Control yourself. We don’t know how tolerant these people are of Beastmen.”

She pouted, ears and tail drooping. “Oh, right. I got so used to being in Anima City where I could look however I wanted.” He released her, and she returned to human form. “But hey, once we finish unpacking, let’s go out! Find something to eat! I bet we—”

A crack of lightning lit up the sky, making them both jump.

“What?! Nooo!” Michiru raked her hands through her hair as dark storm clouds amassed overhead, and rain began to pour. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Now?”

Shirou flipped on the TV, which was already set to the weather channel. It showed a map of the region, and a dark haired Korean woman gestured to a large storm front moving in.

Shirou muted the channel. “Hmm. Looks like we’re going to be set in for a while.”

“This is so unfair!” Michiru whined. “I wanted to go out and _do_ stuff!”

“We can always go down to the cafe. There’s—”

A knock came from the balcony window. Kuro had landed, shaking water from his feathers and pecking the glass. The hotel didn’t allow pets, but Kuro was no ordinary crow. He’d come and go as he pleased, and Shirou had no worries about him losing track of them.

Shirou let him in, and Kuro immediately rolled on his master’s bedsheets to remove the water from his feathers. Michiru made an _awww_ sound and picked him up, planting a kiss on his small head.

The rain made a harsh _tack-tack-tack,_ and an idea struck Shirou. Since they were stuck in here, and he’d promised Michiru…

“I lied to you before,” he said, turning to her.

She looked up from cuddling Kuro. “Eh? About what?”

He sighed and sat in the desk chair. This would take a while, but the storm…it reminded him of something from long ago. “Abiyad’s story. I technically ended it too early.”

Her eyes lit up as she gasped. “I knew it! Wait, is this happening? Is it story time already?”

He spun in the chair, throwing his bare feet against the comforter, and pointed a pen at her. “Yes, but you have to behave. That means no interrupting, no complaining, no whining.” He picked up the card that would allow them to order room service. “Now what do you want to eat?”

“Okay, okay, I know!” She jumped onto the bed, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to her chest. “And I want, uh, what do they have?”

He let her look, and once they’d ordered, she settled onto the bed with Kuro perched on her head. Almost like he wanted to listen as well..

“Alright.” Shirou adjusted his position in the chair, throwing his head back. “Where did I leave off last time…?”

\---

He is twelve years old again. Mother is gone, laid to rest beneath a lemon tree outside of Father’s stables, and Helene is not allowed to leave the temple to mourn her.

But Abiyad does. He cries and wails, his body shaking with grief. He’s never known pain like this before. It hurts, but he doesn’t know how to explain where or why.

It is a dream. He knows this, because it haunts him every night, as does the recurring one about his death.

His death…gods.

In the dream, he crouches before the lemon tree. Cries for his mother, small and sniffling and begging.

_Bring her back. Please._

But then he is dragged through the streets, through rivers of blood and discarded limbs, and he screams and screams and screams until his throat is raw and bubbling with hot acid. He clutches his neck, where a sword tries to cleave bone, and he is drowned in his own blood.

He wakes. 

He didn't jump up, didn't scream. Just breathed deeply as he tried to reaffirm his surroundings. Blinked. Once, twice. A pebbling of rain batted his eyelashes, his forehead, his bare chest. Fig trees overhead, spiraling and twisting into shapes he didn't recognize.

Where…?

Pain laced his muscles as he tried to sit up with a grunt. He winced, touching his forearm, which had no wound, but blood marked it anyway. It coated his hands, seeping into his nails. Old blood.

His heart beat quickened, a gallop. 

What happened?

“Calm down,” he chided himself. “Calm down.”

But he couldn’t…remember. All he knew was that he’d been hungry for days, so perhaps…it was from a hunt. Foggy memories trickled forth, of his claws ripping flesh, his teeth cracking bone. A hunter. He was a hunter, yes, for Simeon, he—

No. No, no, Simeon was dead. They were all dead.

He had no home. No family. No one.

Just the whispers in his head.

**_Avenge us, avenge us, avenge us._ **

Yes, that was right. He was looking for someone. A human, a Roman general. He had no clue what the man’s name could be, and it tortured him. How could he not remember it? Father had said it many times, back when Abiyad was a child and the general had wanted to buy that damn colt.

But where was he now? A forest, yes. Somewhere. It was evening, the sun setting behind a clouded sky, as storm clouds threatened to roll in. Their dark, angry forms reminded him of shouting gods with open mouths and piercing eyes.

Maybe they would swallow him.

Like that white wolf.

He should get up. Walk. Continue on his journey. But he ached to his very bones, and he was vaguely aware of…steam? It rose from his skin like a newborn foal in winter.

It wasn’t winter.

Rubbing his neck, he glanced around. He’d been following a path of some kind. Not a road. Maybe a deer path, maybe someone’s hunting trail. 

Perhaps…more Beastmen were nearby. While most had lived in Nirvasyl, not all had. Plenty of them traveled and traded with far away humans, so the likelihood of him meeting one wasn’t slim. 

With a grunt, he rotated on his hip to try to stand. Shit, why was he naked? He couldn’t remember anything after he’d left Nirvasyl. He’d had a cloak then. Just a cloak, but he also hadn’t exactly been in his right mind either.

So now what?

Sighing, he ran his hand through his hair. Well, if he morphed, nudity wouldn’t be so scandalous—

A soft gasp came from behind him.

On instinct, he shifted. A man appeared over him, a Beastman by his scent, but had no time for relief, because the man pressed a knife into the soft flesh of his throat.

Abiyad stilled. A memory, fresh like a new wound, flashed before his eyes. Another blade, tearing the large jugular vein in his neck in an attempt to sever it from his body. 

With a snarl, he leapt up, snatching the man’s wrist and twisting as if to break it.

“Wait, please! I give in!” The man spoke Bulgarian, not Latin or Greek. Not an enemy. 

Abiyad released him, and the man stumbled back. Up close, he calculated the newcomer to be in his late sixties. His skin was deeply tanned, like old leather, and his dark hair had turned mostly gray. Wrinkles marked beneath his eyes, but laugh lines ran down his mouth. A happy man. Most likely a kind one. 

Hands up in surrender, the man bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I thought you were a thief.”

A thief? The knife had fallen in the dirt, and Abiyad bent to pick it up. “Here.” He held it hilt first. “You should know not to draw knives on wolves.”

Blinking several times, the old man looked up. “A bit strange to hear that coming from such a young looking one.” He took the offered knife. “What’s your name?”

Abiyad’s eyes narrowed. Something in his gut told him he shouldn’t tell this man, no matter how kind he seemed, his true name. “Ivaylo.” It was the first thing that popped into his head. He’d known a Beastman trader with the name, and Abiyad had always liked him for his honesty and stoic disposition.

The elder’s brows rose, and he looked Abiyad up and down as if he’d seen a ghost. “That’s not a Roman name.”

Wait…why did that matter? Had he wandered further into Byzantine territory? Well, it wasn’t like he looked like a Roman anyway. Not with the white hair and transparent eyes. And “Abiyad” was Arabic, which would probably turn even more heads.

“I’m not Roman,” Abiyad growled. The rain began to fall harder, turning his fur a misted gray. He really needed some clothes. Ever since he’d…died and become that _thing_ , he hadn’t found any. 

It’d been what, a day, since Nirvasyl was attacked? Maybe two?

The man put his knife away and held a hand out to Abiyad’s shoulders. “Why don’t you come to my home? You look…” His mouth pressed into a thin line, and Abiyad winced. He had to look like a feral child, running naked and covered in old blood and fresh mud. The rain wasn’t helping either.

His stomach growled, reminding him of what he’d originally been doing. Hunting. Like a clumsy pup just learning how to catch a hare.

“You need help, boy. Let me offer you food, clothing, a place to stay the night.”

Exhaustion swept through Abiyad. Help. He didn’t need anyone’s help. He just needed to fill his belly, then be on his way. Southeast, to Constantinople. That’s where the general was from, that much he remembered. 

He’d find him, break his neck, and eat his corpse.

_“Shirou, I thought you said you didn’t actually eat people!”_

_“I’ve never committed cannibalism, no.”_

_“I’m really suspicious right now.”_

The man’s cottage wasn’t far. It was old and lived in, and the soft patter of rain reminded him of the warm summer nights he’d spent in the shepherd’s hut as a boy. Even the walls smelled the same…like old grass and the faint trace of animals.

The man--named Nathaniel--was a widower. His wife had died a decade ago, and they’d never had children, so he spent his days selling and tanning leather. His animal form was a dog, nothing too special. His eyes never left Abiyad the entire time he spoke, even when he prepared eggs and bread for him. The only time they did was when he brought Abiyad a tunic that was slightly too big, but Abiyad thanked him regardless.

“Your name is Hebrew,” Abiyad said, quiet. He sat at Nathaniel’s small table, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’d returned to human form now that he was clothed, and the anxiety from before left him. “It means Gift of God.”

Nathaniel took a bite of his own meal and cocked his head to the side. “Yes?”

Abiyad stared at his plate. A simple meal. Humble. He gulped it down without even chewing. “It is a good name.” He licked butter from his fingers. He didn’t care that dried blood still coated them; the taste of human blood lit up his tongue, and a low growl rose from his chest. He turned piercing eyes on Nathaniel again, and the old man flinched back. “Do you know of the city Nirvasyl?”

The rain had picked up, a rhythmic _tap tap tap_ outside the windows. Nathaniel didn’t move nor speak for a long moment, though his throat bobbed with a swallow.

“That city is gone,” he said. “It’s…” His eyes nearly bugged out of his head, and he scrambled out of his chair. Abiyad froze, startled by the movement, and Nathaniel picked up a scythe that’d been lying in the shadows. Abiyad hadn’t even smelled it; it was so old it blended in with the scents of dust and dander.

“You’re him,” the old man sputtered. “The Boneshaker.”

Abiyad didn’t move, didn’t so much as blink. The scythe quivered in Nathaniel’s age spotted hands. 

“What’s a Boneshaker?” He tried to keep his voice even, and somehow succeeded.

Nathaniel gulped. “There’s stories—already—the city was only destroyed three months ago—by a general from Constantinople—”

Wait.

What?

“Three months?” Abiyad ground out. “No—no, it was—”

Two days. Two days at most. 

But…was it? 

His eyes shot back and forth as he searched for a hazy memory. He could have swore it’d only been a couple of days. He’d walked out of the burning ruins, and then—

What had he done?

He raked his mind for one memory, just one, but nothing specific came up. Just a fog, and the general feeling. He recalled running, hunting, biting, tearing—

No. No, no, no.

He’d become that thing again. 

He bolted upright, clawed hands digging into the wooden table. He morphed without meaning to, a snarl on his tongue, and he spun to Nathaniel. 

“Do you know the general’s name? The one who destroyed Nirvasyl?”

But Nathaniel only cowered in fear, his lips quivering on a whispered prayer. At the time, Abiyad hadn’t understood the man’s babbling, but he’d later realize it to be a prayer to _him_. 

You see, the rumors Nathaniel had spoken of were about a great white beast, the living embodiment of a wrathful Argyros, who brought havoc across the countryside. The beast carried storms, the locals said. It could move fast as lighting, and a scream of thunder would signal its approach. It was why they’d called it Boneshaker, for the thunder would rattle their houses, their bodies, until they fell to their knees and wept.

The Boneshaker also attacked humans, killed them, and left their torn bodies strewn across the hills.

These rumors were, unfortunately, true.

Of course, Abiyad didn’t understand what had happened to him, not fully. He didn’t understand his powers, hell, he didn’t even know he was immortal. That’d come in time.

What he did know was that he was no god, because gods can’t bleed. 

And right then, his nose bled.

He held his hand to it, the redness staining his fur. Something seized in him, and he bolted from the cottage right before his body twisted itself into that creature and tore off into the rain.

The transformation itself didn’t hurt. It was fast, painless. His tunic fell away, and he landed on all fours, breathing hot, steaming air from an open maw. As the rumors said, a thunder crack rolled off him, as did electric pulses that sizzled and burned nearby brush. He was taller than a horse, taller than Nathaniel’s cottage, and he…glowed.

That had to be one of the strangest parts.

The old man had followed him, falling to his knees and praying, but Abiyad didn’t acknowledge him. He was too busy trying not to lose his mind.

This was not his body. It felt foreign—like a second skin—that had been wrapped around him against his will. It had killed, mercilessly, and it would do so again.

Perhaps…that was not a bad thing.

With a growl, he tore off into the trees.

There were no more answers for him here.

\---

Constantinople. The city of the emperors. The city of tyrants.

That was where he’d find the general. He was sure of it. So sure of it that he could practically taste the man’s blood already. 

Days passed. If Nathaniel was right, then it was fall now. It was unusually humid that year as well, prime conditions for storms. Everywhere he went, one would pop up. Small, angry, loud, hungry, it didn’t matter.

He had begun to believe that perhaps he _was_ the cause of them. 

When in the form of this…Boneshaker, his senses were sharper. Tenfold. His vision was broader, his sense of smell reached further. And it was hungry, always hungry, for violence. It wanted the humans to hurt, to bleed, to rot, like Nirvasyl had. 

Like all his kin had.

That feeling grew stronger every day, until it threatened to consume him. He didn’t know where he roamed, just that he smelled humans to the southeast. Many humans, too many to count. More than he’d ever seen in his life.

He’d kill that damn general if it was the last thing he ever did.

At some point, he changed back. Most likely due to exhaustion, because the form took a great amount of energy to maintain, and with it gone, the blood lust lessened. It always lingered just below the surface, but when he was in human form, it was considerably less so. More bearable. 

The problem was that he really was a feral child running naked—he’d lost Nathaniel’s tunic—and that wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He found clothes, or rather, he accidentally walked in on a household of young women, and they shrieked upon seeing him—mostly because he was still covered in blood—and stole clothing from their wash pool. The girls must have been a farmer’s daughters, because the clothes were meant for an adult man, someone of similar height to Abiyad, but who was much wider. He’d always been tall and lean, something Helene had teased him about.

It didn’t matter. This was all he had, and he had to keep moving, keep searching. Eventually, he’d have to talk to people, in a proper city. That was his best bet for finding information on the general.

He eventually realized why Nathaniel had been surprised by Abiyad giving him a Bulgarian name. At some point in those lost three months, he’d crossed into Roman territory. 

He’d killed Romans. So many that they’d given him a new title.

A part of him should have felt remorse over it. To kill was a crime, a sin, an act that no Beastman could ever return from.

But they were humans. Dirty, filthy humans, on top of being Romans. 

They had to die.

\---

Eventually, he came upon Piticus.

It was an old port city city, ancient even, several miles south of Phillipi. It had been ruled by the Greeks, Thracians, Macedonians, Slavs, and now the Byzantines. It was a Beastmen city, at least, it had been. By the time Abiyad arrived, Byzantine Romans crawled through it like ants, just like they had in Nirvasyl before its final days.

But this city wasn’t destroyed. It wasn’t burned, it wasn’t ransacked. 

Why? Why had Nirvasyl been destroyed, but not this place? 

Abiyad watched the city from atop a hill, beneath a lone olive tree. He’d run into a problem. Well, several problems. One: he had no money. If he was to find his way to Constantinople without starving to death, he’d need to eat something besides stolen chicken eggs and wild hare. He’d also prefer clothing that didn’t feel like it was about to fall off his shoulders—it made him feel and look like a child again—and he’d need a guide. 

All guides came with a price.

Two: his hair. White, translucent in certain lighting, like polar bear fur. If a backwoods nobody like Nathaniel had heard stories of the terrible Boneshaker, then Piticus most likely had too. And he’d stand out. He didn’t look like a Roman, or a Bulgarian, or anything. Which ultimately led to the root of all his problems: he had no money to buy any henna or indigo to dye his hair.

So, his best bet was to hope no one would want to look too closely. As long as he remained in human form and didn’t pick a fight, he should be fine. If he was lucky, someone might mistake him for a Scandinavian or a person with albinism.

Just go in, find a guide, and get out.

Trying not to look suspicious, he slid down the hill. An elderly woman leading goats passed, and he caught up to her, pretending to help herd them through the main gates. One of the creatures blinked oddly at him, then bleated in his face.

“Quiet,” he whispered and patted its head. 

This town wasn’t heavily fortified or guarded, so he had no special papers he’d be required to show. A few people stared as he left the old woman’s goats behind, but he kept his head down and made his way toward Piticus’s docks. Strong human and Beastmen scents threatened to overwhelm him, but so did the strong scent of cooked swordfish and spices. 

But then he smelled something worse. Much worse.

Byzantine soldiers appeared out of his peripheral vision, and on instinct, he shot into a dark alley.

This wasn’t going to work. He couldn’t dodge soldiers the entire time he was here, even if it was just for a short while. He needed a disguise, a cover—

“Well well well. Looks like I’ve found the Boneshaker of Nirvasyl in Piticus of all places.”

Abiyad spun on his heels, a snarl on his lips. 

A tall, brown-skinned woman with long curly hair stood behind him, her smile smug. She wore loose, colorful clothing, and knee pants—which at the time was quite surprising to see on a woman—and a gold septum piercing marked her hooked nose. 

Her scent was like the sea. Of salt and brine, but also like warm fur and sandalwood. 

A Beastwoman.

And by her accent, Egyptian.

He squinted at her, the thin hairs along his neck rising. “Who are you?”

“Call me Irah.” The woman strode forward, her tall leather boots creaking as she walked. She planted long, thin hands on hips and cocked her head at him. “You’re not from around here are you? You speak like a Bulgarian, and that is supposedly where the Boneshaker hails from.”

 _I speak like no one,_ he wanted to snap, but glowered instead. “I don’t know what this Boneshaker is that you speak of, but—”

“Oh please, you smell like human blood and wolf pelts, and you have the eyes of a hunter. You’ve killed someone, haven’t you?” When he flinched back, she grinned, showing sharp canines. “I’m not wrong about these things.”

 _Calm down_ , Abiyad chided himself. _She doesn’t know anything. Make something up._

“What’s your name?” Irah asked. “I bet it’s something delicious and foreign.”

Gods, she made his hackles rise. “Ivaylo,” he said on impulse. That might as well have been his name at this point. Abiyad was another lifetime, another world.

“Ivaylo. Hmm.” She was right upon him now, and up close, he could make out the freckles along her cheekbones. He couldn’t pinpoint an age for her. Her voice was almost smoky, like older women tended to have, but she bore no wrinkles. “If you want to cross to Constantinople, then you’ll need a guide. I can help you.”

“What—how did—?”

“You’ve been skulking around the outskirts for the past several hours,” she said, dry, “and if the rumors are true, the Boneshaker is heading southeast, toward the human’s god-city.” She cocked her head like a cat. “They say the wolf god of Nirvasyl has taken a flesh-and-blood form, tearing through human cities, bringing storms and howling its rage against the Romans. It’s terrible what happened there.”

The last bit she said with a bite, like she actually meant it. Abiyad’s brows rose. 

But he couldn’t afford any distractions. “I don’t need your help.”

The smug grin never left. It was starting to irritate him. “And be eaten alive by pirates or the Byzantine navy in the process? Do you have a single idea how to sail the Propontis?”

“By the looks of it, you’re one of those pirates,” he said, clipped, “and I have no money to offer you, so you can piss off.”

“That hurts my feelings.” By her tone, it didn’t. “I’m not a pirate, and I don’t want your money, _boy_.”

“Hah. Then what do you want?”

Her golden gaze sharpened, and her fingers tapered into long, feline claws. She held one up to his face, sliding it along his throat, his scar.

He snatched her wrist, but she only smiled. “I want the same as you…to watch the Romans burn.”

\---

Irah had a ship all right. It was a Viking longboat with a dozen oars and a single sail, meant for far more people than just the two of them.

“Did you steal this from Scandinavians?” Abiyad asked as they stepped aboard.

She snorted. “It doesn’t matter where I got it. It does its job.”

“And you expect it to hold up against the great Byzantine navy?” This was why he’d wanted to try to sneak in either alone or with a single guide. Not an entire crew.

And Irah had a crew, of sorts. All of them Beastwomen. Women who’d had their homes destroyed by the Romans, their babes murdered, their lovers stolen. 

When Abiyad had asked Irah about what the Romans had done to spur her so, she just kept pressing that unsettling smile.

She turned to him now, hands on hips. “I do not plan to fight the damn navy, Boneshaker. I’m not stupid. We would never win. Have you never heard the phrase ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’?”

“Rome is a pile of rubble after the Beastmen conflicts two centuries ago,” Abiyad drawled.

“Still, it applies.” She turned to a tall blond woman. “Show him.”

“I don’t like having a man aboard,” the woman growled. Her Scandinavian accent was so thick he almost didn’t recognize any of the words to be Latin. She bared sharp teeth over scarred lips, and her long braids whacked against her deeply tanned shoulders when she moved. “Brings bad luck.”

“Funny,” Abiyad said, “I’ve heard the same about women.”

A knife was at his throat before he could blink. He froze, nostrils flaring. Why did everyone want to cut off his head so badly?

“Down, Hildr.” Irah’s unimpressed tone never wavered. “He is a god, you know. I don’t think you could kill him even if you tried.”

“I can make him bleed,” Hildr snarled. She’d morphed into a wolf, her fur a mix of cream and gray, and her pale eyes reminded Abiyad of old water. The knife switched to his cheek, pressing into the soft skin. “I don’t trust him, god or no. Only Odin can cause the world to shake, the skies to crack. Not this pup.”

Abiyad was starting to grow weary of being referred to as a god, and it’d only been three months of his immortality.

He batted Hildr’s hand away. “I’m no god, so stop calling me that. I just want to kill the general who destroyed my home and murdered my family.” His sharp eyes flicked to Hildr. “I would think you’d want the same.”

Her eyes narrowed, and after a few seconds, she stood down. Morphing back to human form, she spat over the side of the ship and returned to Irah’s side.

“It will take a day or so to reach the opposite side of the sea,” Irah said. She stood at the helm of the boat, overlooking the wide expanse of black water. “I suggest you try not to get yourself thrown overboard.”

\---

Islands dotted the Marmara’s north and south, though in that time, the sea was referred to as the Propontis. It was on one of these northern islands, now called the Kızıl Islands, that Irah and her crew decided to seek shelter from another oncoming storm.

And once again, Abiyad wondered if he had brought the angry skies to them.

“We’ll make camp here,” Irah told him over the howl of a vengeful wind. The sky had turned dark gray as thunder rolled in the distance, and the water rocked hard enough to knock his hip into the boat’s side. Several women began to pray—though to what gods he didn’t know—while Hildr pointed her wolf’s muzzle to the sky with a smug smile.

“Odin rides the skies today,” she said, then looked to Abiyad. “The true Odin, that is.”

Abiyad curled his lip, but didn’t rise to her bait. That’d just be a waste of time, and he had more important things on his mind.

Rain slashed at their skin as they settled the boat in a nook that wouldn’t wash it out to sea. Abiyad had never felt such strength, such power, in a storm before. It raged, hungry and endless, as they huddled beneath canvas tarps on the boat. 

Distantly, Abiyad swore he could hear it speak. 

He lay on his stomach beside Irah, who curled her arms beneath her as she listened to the rain. She smirked at him—did she ever make any other expression?—and said, “My mother died at sea in a storm like this.”

He said nothing, because frankly, he didn’t care, but they had nothing else to do, so he said, “I’m sorry.” Because it was the polite thing to say, and he knew what it was like to lose a mother. A father. A sister. 

Irah shook her head and kept her eyes on the thin sliver of tarp that exposed the outside world. “I respect the sea because of it, you know. A healthy dose of fear. Other sailors, particularly men, will mock me for not carrying on.” She tapped her temple. “But I’m still alive, and they are all dead. So really, who is the wisest here, eh?”

Abiyad remained silent, unsure of how to respond. Why Irah was telling him this, he didn’t know that either. They barely knew each other.

“If you are a god,” Irah continued, and he flinched, “then perhaps you can figure out how to get this storm off our backs.”

Abiyad side eyed her. “I’m not Odin, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She barked a laugh and punched him in the shoulder, resulting in a grunt. “Of course not! You aren’t missing an eye and you have no ravens! Don’t let Hildr get to you, she’s just like that. Either way, we’re stuck here for the time being because we need to make a plan. I would just like to do it when my clothes aren’t ripped away by sea winds.”

A _hmmm_ was Abiyad’s response, and he laid his head against wood, listening as lighting clashed overhead. It rolled through the sea, the islands, his bones. It reminded him of his rebirth, how Nirvasyl had shaken to the core when he’d ruptured from that pit. 

He still didn’t understand his powers, and to be honest, they frightened him. He flexed his palm, which had grown worn over the past day. His constant grip on the ship had produced splinters, but they instantly spat themselves back out. He’d even cut himself by mistake when Irah ordered him to gut a caught fish, and his skin…healed.

It’d startled him so badly he’d dropped the knife and gripped his wrist like it wasn’t attached to his body.

How? _How?_ This wasn’t natural. It was a curse of some kind. A devil’s work.

None of the women had noticed, and he planned to keep it that way. In the depths of his memory, he felt something familiar to this…this shock at his body healing itself. Like he’d discovered it before, but then he’d become the Boneshaker, and those memories remained blurred.

Which meant that…maybe…just maybe…

He rose quickly, peeling the tarp back as a slash of rain slammed into him. The women yowled, and Irah snapped, “Where are you going? I was jesting!”

He was soaked in moments, hair plastered to his forehead. The gray waves crashed against the boat, sprayed his legs and bare feet. The storm howled at his approach, and again, he swore he heard it speak. A low, angry rumble, distorted and cold.

He stood straight and held his arms up. Closed his eyes. Breathed.

This was possibly one of the most foolish things he’d ever done, especially at that age, when he didn’t understand just how far his body could be pushed. But he was willing to test it, because ultimately, what did he have to lose? 

His mind returned to the night he’d died. The night he was ripped from the earth, reborn into a new body. The rage that’d burned through him, that still did, but it was just below the surface, electric and bitter. 

A crackle in the air made the hairs on his forearms rise.

Lightning, powerful and hot, split the clouds. 

In a fiery ripple of flesh and bone, he morphed into the Boneshaker. Leaping to meet it, the lightning licked his body, joining with his own electric pulse, and a heat so powerful entered him that he thought he might die of it. It burned from the inside out, rolling, but he landed in the sand with a powerful thud.

He felt…focused. For the first time in a long time, his mind became clear.

The storm raged on, but no more lightning came, because he was the lightning. Cyan sparks rolled across his back and down his limbs, just like the night he’d first changed. 

It was the blood that had brought him back, but the lightning that had awoken him.

A voice came from the longboat. “My gods, my gods, my _gods_.”

Abiyad turned just as the women peeked out from under the tarps. Hildr had stood up, her jaw slack, while Irah’s smug face had turned into one of terror. The other women huddled close, their eyes wide and fearful. A few fell on their knees, praying and weeping.

“He really is the Boneshaker,” Irah murmured, and Abiyad almost snorted. 

Liquid red dripped from his nose, and he sucked in a harsh breath. No, no—he’d just figured out how to do this on his own. He’d leapt into lightning, this couldn’t—

But he shrank. Steam rose off him as he collapsed, coughing and hacking up blood.

“Ivaylo?” Irah sprang from the boat, rain slashing her long coat, as she slid in the sand beside him. “Don’t push yourself. You didn’t have to do that, I hadn’t meant for you to actually do anything, I—”

Abiyad grasped for her arm, squeezing as he choked for breath. Blood poured from his nose, into his lips, onto his tongue. Damn it!

He tried to look at her, but his vision was shaky. “I just wanted to prove I could do it.”

Her eyes softened, lips parting. “You really are just a kid, aren’t you?”

“I’m twenty-two,” he slurred, and coughed up more blood. Good gods, were his lungs broken? Why wasn’t he healing? The second that cut had happened, the skin stitched itself back together.

Irah sighed, and she wrapped her arms under him to help him stand. “You are nothing but skin and bones. How long have you been like this?” She asked it as if she were just realizing something, though he couldn’t imagine what.

Abiyad’s vision slowly began to return, and his coughing turned into soft, quieter gags. Gods above, what was wrong? This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be strong enough to kill the general, to tear apart all these damned Romans. Why else was he given these abilities?

Instead, he felt like he’d been kicked in the head by a horse.

The storm, at least, began to recede. Irah helped him sit on the edge of the boat, and though he continued to cough, no more blood came up. Hildr handed him a dirty cloth, and he muttered his thanks as he wiped it down his face.

The she-wolf glowered at him. “You are no god if you bleed like that.”

A long, irritated sigh escaped him as he buried his head in the cloth. No. He was no god, and he didn’t want to be, but these abilities…they were something only a god had. Something not of this time, this world, and they’d been forced upon him when he should have died along with his family instead.

He didn’t know what he was anymore.

\---

When evening came, the crew huddled around a fire on the beach. Hildr stood watch; apparently this island was one where the Byzantine court liked to send banished nobles. They were often blinded upon being set loose, but that didn’t mean one couldn’t come stumbling out and give them all a collective heart attack.

“Wouldn’t this flame draw suspicion?” Abiyad asked, looking out to sea. “Any passing ships would see us.”

Irah poked at the fire while Hildr turned the cooking fish. “A Christian monastery also exists here. They help take care of the banished nobility.”

Abiyad scoffed, turning back to the flames. They danced, orange and bright, but he couldn’t look at them for too long. They reminded him of…

“Ivaylo.”

He jumped, turning toward Irah again. She watched him with a curious expression, eyes narrowed but head tilted. She looked like she might ask a question, but instead she handed him a silvery fish on a stick. “Eat. You have little muscle tone, and fish will help you build it.”

No muscle tone? He’d always been lean, but he’d spent his whole life working with animals and hunting. That naturally built muscle of its own. 

But…

He pulled into himself, one arm pressing close to his ribs, which were more prominent than he remembered. Gods, had he not been eating while he was running around in those three months? How was he still alive?

 _This cursed body seems to keep you from dying,_ he hissed to himself, and took the fish. He ate it in two bites, much to the others’ astonishment, and Irah gave him another. And another. 

He became self conscious of their stares, and didn’t ask Irah for another fish, though his stomach growled like it would die if he didn’t. She made no comment, though he was sure all of them heard, and they ate in silence. 

No one sat near him except Irah and Hildr. Ever since the crew had witnessed him as the Boneshaker, they no longer made eye contact, no longer spoke directly to him. Not that they had done so often before, but now it was worse.

He told himself he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. But it just reminded him how different he was now, compared to them. 

_What are you?_ They seemed to ask. _Why are you like this? Are you a god? Are you a demon? Are you even a Beastman?_

Yeah. He wondered that too.

“I have a story,” Irah said. The others turned to her expectantly, even Abiyad. By the others’ expressions, this was a regular occurrence. 

The fire reflected wild and bright against Irah’s skin, lighting up the contours of her long face. “Long ago, there was a Beastwoman who lived the life of luxury. She’d married a rich human man—”

Abiyad’s eyes narrowed, and he was tempted to scoff.

“—and they lived happily with their only child, a son. Like his mother, he’d inherited Beastmen transformation, and as he grew, she taught him everything he needed to know about how and when to use this ability. But she also had to explain that because of what he was, things may be difficult for him. The humans would fear him, and the Beastmen would find him unnatural. A Beastman-human hybrid is uncommon, but also a beautiful miracle. The people just wouldn’t understand.

“The Beastwoman spent most of her days running a Roman bathhouse, making sure it remained clean, accepting patrons’ money, and employing servants. Her husband was a high ranked soldier, often away, so the woman and her son spent their days together. 

“But one day, her husband didn’t return from his most recent campaign. They had gone north, fighting clans of barbarians. A messenger arrived at the bathhouse, informing the Beastwoman that her husband had been killed in battle, and her property was to be seized immediately. No matter how much the woman fought, the bathhouse and all their belongings were taken, and she and her son were thrown onto the streets with only the clothes on their backs.”

Abiyad’s claws dug into his knees as he listened. Romans. Always the damned Romans causing everyone grief, even in tales such as this. He was reminded of his Father, driven into poverty because of one’s greedy actions. 

“The Beastwoman wouldn’t be cowed, however. Driven with grief and rage, she tried to steal coins from the magistrate’s mansion in order to feed her son. It was a foolish effort, because she was caught almost immediately, and even her leopard form couldn’t protect her. The guards had nets and long spears, and when they finally caught her, she screamed like a dying beast, twisting in the net until it nearly suffocated her.

“The usual punishment for thievery in that city was to cut off the hands of the culprit. But this magistrate was a particularly cruel man. He knew the Beastwoman had a son—a hybrid child that shouldn’t exist.”

Sweat rolled off Abiyad’s temple. He knew where this was going, because all humans were the same. They hated Beastmen, hated anyone who was different from them, and ultimately, killed them. There was no reasoning with them; they only responded to violence.

“They strung him up with a noose.” Irah’s voice was calm, even. “In front of the whole city, where they could scream how much they hated him. A child. A child she had brought into this world. The magistrate had her watch, and she screamed her agony. They’d locked her in a cage, like an animal, and no matter how much she clawed at the bars, there was no escape. She watched her boy die, and she felt a piece of herself die with him.”

Hildr rested her hand on Irah’s shoulder, and Irah placed her own hand over it. For a moment, she didn’t continue, and a collective whine came from the crew. 

The fire popped, small sparks flying near Abiyad’s feet. “You were the woman.”

Irah’s smile was wry, and when she glanced his way, a thin line of tears coated her eyes. “My boy would be your age if he was still alive.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that, but he let out a shaky breath. Leaned his head back, toward the night sky, which was alight with billions of stars. Their reach was endless, eternal. 

The Christians believed when they died, they went to the stars, to a place called Heaven. The Beastmen religions were wild and vast, completely different. Even in Argyros’s religion, the promise of peace in the afterlife was vague. But Abiyad knew of one Beastmen religion in Egypt that said when the body died, the spirit became stardust.

Perhaps that’s where Irah’s boy was now.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “You deserve justice for what happened to your son.” 

And he meant it; once he took care of this general, he’d find the magistrate who’d killed Irah’s son, and make his life hell on earth. A promise he set deep into his heart.

“Thank you.” She rubbed her eyes, and that determined look settled across her features again. “Let’s get some rest while we can. I have big plans for tomorrow.”

\---

A knock came from the hotel door, just as another clash of thunder rolled from outside. Both startled Shirou out of his tale, and Michiru nearly leapt off the bed, her tail fuzzed up like a cat’s.

“Room service,” a voice called in Korean.

Shirou let out a disgruntled sigh. “One moment,” he called back in the same language, and shot Michiru a look that read, _Change into human form right now before I stuff you in the closet._

“Oh! Right!” She morphed and shoved Kuro under the covers, making the crow squawk.

Shirou opened the door just a crack, snatched the food, and tipped before the unsuspecting human on the other side had even a moment to think about being nosy. He locked the door and breathed out slowly. His nerves were suddenly on edge, though he wasn’t sure why. There was nothing to be nervous about here.

Except…

He sat back in his chair and gave Michiru her food. 

“Gimme!” She snatched it with tanuki paws and popped open the box with a noise of pure glee. “I’m starrrving! It took forever.”

Shirou snorted and picked at his noodles with his chopsticks, rolling it around for proper inspection. “And I finally get a break. My throat’s giving out.”

Michiru gasped. “What? No! You gotta finish the story! It hasn’t been that long.” She shoved a water bottle at him. “Hurry, drink this!”

He batted her away. “I’ll drink after I eat, leave me alone. And I will finish it. This storm looks like it’s going to settle in for a long while anyway.” He nodded at the rain-soaked windows, and Michiru’s eyes narrowed.

“Yeah. About that.” She pointed a ketchup stained finger at him. (She’d ordered a burger and fries, of all things.) “Where the heck did these so-called storm powers come from? Why didn’t you just zap Alan if you can literally control the weather?”

He slurped up the noodles, his taste buds instantly exploding with flavor. It made him want to melt into the chair. “I don’t control the weather.”

“But this whole story makes it sound like you can!”

“And like I said, it was an usually humid fall that year. And the story’s not over.” He swallowed, and though his throat burned with the spices, he still didn’t take a sip of water. “You’ll get your answers by the end, if I tell it right. Which means you can’t interrupt.”

“I haven’t interrupted one time! Right, Kuro?” The bird had hopped beside her and snatched a fry, and he was in the middle of downing it when she turned to him. “Hey! Give that back!”

“Do you really want to eat it when he’s swallowed half of it?”

“No!” Michiru scowled as Kuro finished the fry, clearly pleased with himself.

“Let him have another. It won’t kill him.”

She rolled her eyes, but let Kuro have a second one. “I guess he deserves it, since he’s been such a good bird this whole time. Sorry I yelled at you, buddy.”

The crow cooed, snuggling up beside her as they shared the meal. Shirou could admit it, they were cute. Like a kid and her dog, only the kid was some kind of dog-creature, and her pet was an abnormally long-lived crow. 

He stared at his bowl again, lips pursed. He’d been hungry earlier, but ever since he’d started the story, his appetite had begun to sour, despite the delicious taste. “The next part is…difficult to talk about.” 

Michiru didn’t say anything at first, just chewed in silence as she watched him. It suddenly made him self conscious, and he cleared his throat, curling his knees up in the chair. He was lanky enough that he fit. 

“You don’t have to give me every little detail,” she said, quiet.

Her change in tone made him sigh. He’d tried to give more information this time, hopefully allowing for a better tale. While it was his own life experience, he wanted it to be…a good story. As long as he continued to refer to Abiyad as another person, a character, his own feelings didn’t get so twisted. 

“I know.” He rubbed his forehead, squeezed his eyes shut. “I want to tell it accurately, but also…Michiru, I’m not proud of Abiyad, who he was, what he did. I don’t…” He paused, unable to look at her. “Just tell me if it’s too much.”

She cocked her head, eyes…sad. Shit, not that look. Anything but that. “I don’t mind, I just worry about you.”

Right. Her worrying about him, when it should be the other way around, since he was her guardian and all. 

“I don’t think less of you, you know,” she continued. “I already knew you did some horrible things in the past, but that was a long time ago. You’re different now, and honestly…I think Abiyad had the right to be angry. If that had happened to me…” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I’d have done.”

Angry. That was only the surface of what he’d felt at the time. There was no way someone like Michiru, a carefree kid, could ever understand the pain of something as traumatic as watching your entire family being murdered. In a way, the Sylvastas hadn’t just murdered Abiyad and his kin, but they had destroyed a culture. Nirvasyl, and other cities like it, had not existed again until Anima City was founded.

And no one else in the world would ever be able to fathom being reborn, especially in such a brutal, violent way. He knew that. He’d known that for a long time.

He’d just…never really talked about it.

Shirou cleared his throat and finally drank some water. It helped. Just a little. “Okay. Let’s continue.”

\---

Abiyad’s dreams were haunted by old ghosts. They didn’t make sense, most of the time, and he always awoke with a sense of foreboding. 

And the voices. The ever present, **_Avenge us, avenge us._**

He could have swore he heard…

“Ivaylo!”

His eyes snapped open. Irah stood over him, hands on hips. They’d slept on the boat, which was uncomfortable, but Abiyad was so tired that he’d instantly fallen asleep. As he sat up, he groaned as pain laced through his muscles. A crick formed in his neck, but as he stood, it was already gone. 

Irah yanked him off the boat as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Come. The others are waiting.”

“What’s going on?” he grumbled. “It’s so early.”

The sun barely crested the horizon, and a thick fog smothered the sea. The air was cool, prickling his skin as Irah led him to the fire pit from last night. The flames had been doused last night, and the air was too wet for them to start a new one. Thank the gods that Hildr had cooked enough fish for them to have breakfast.

“Eat while I talk,” Irah said. She shoved half a fish into his hands, then stood before the group, hands on hips. “I’m sure most of you have sensed it already, but another storm is coming, and given our trajectory, we won’t be able to cross the sea again today. So it looks like we’re stuck here.”

A collective groan, even from Abiyad. 

“No whining! This is good, however. We can work on a proper plan on how to get into Constantinople and find the general Ivaylo searches for. While he does that, we will have our own agenda.”

Their own agenda…Abiyad hadn’t asked what exactly that was, mostly because he didn’t care. Originally, he’d planned to just use the women to get himself into Constantinople and wreak havoc. But now that he’d been forced to intermingle with them, and after hearing Irah’s story, his curiosity spiked.

Perhaps…he should have put more thought into this.

“What do you plan to do?” he asked after swallowing the last of his fish. 

They all turned to him as if they’d forgotten he was there. It took all his willpower not to flinch back; why did they have to stare like that?

A chuckle rolled from Irah. “You never asked before, pup. What changed?”

He bristled at the nickname, something he’d only been called as a child. It’d always made him feel young when he was so desperate to grow up and become a man like his father. 

“Consider me curious,” he replied, “after hearing that gruesome tale from last night.”

Her smile took an edge to it, sharp canines exposed, and he was reminded of what lay beneath her skin. She had yet to show her Beast form, which had surprised him considering Hildr and the rest of the crew transformed whenever they felt like it. 

“I told you, dear Ivaylo, that I want to watch the Romans burn.”

That word again. It was said with precision, with purpose. “So you want to set fire to Constantinople?”

A shrug. “In a sense. Constantinople is a large city. I doubt a small group like us could truly burn it down. No, I aim for the Great Palace.”

Abiyad’s eyes widened. The Great Palace was Constantinople’s home to the emperors, well fortified and considered impenetrable. Why would she want to tackle that? From a military standpoint, it made sense to take it out, but they were no military. They were a small band looking for one man, or at least, Abiyad was. 

“You’re mad if you think you can infiltrate the Palace. You’ll be dead before you even set eyes upon the outer walls.”

“And that’s where you come in, Boneshaker.” Her voice had taken on that slippery, cunning tone. Something he had learned was not her true self, but a facade. An armor. “Storms seem to follow you everywhere you go, and as evident by yesterday, you can even control lightning.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s control,” he ground out. 

Another shrug. “Doesn’t matter. I want you to pull down the lightning. Before I met you, I had already planned on other means to start a fire, but this power you have…you are a being molded for destruction, and what better use for your powers than to destroy greedy Romans who grow prosperous off the labors of our people, who they are so happy to starve and murder.” Her lips had curled into a snarl, exposing those teeth again, and her pupils had thinned into slits. 

Abiyad’s own anger simmered, and his mind flashed back to Nirvasyl. The fire, the ash, the screaming. 

He clutched at his chest, where the cavalry spear had broken his sternum. 

“This is not something we can rush,” Irah continued. “I’ve spent years thinking it over. I’ve spent that time keeping track of the magistrate who murdered my son. Every year, during the early fall, he travels to Constantinople to meet with the nobility. I would not doubt that your general will show up here on that day too. You still do not know his name?”

Abiyad shook his head. “No. I…I don’t remember it. Or if it was even said in my presence at all. But I’ll remember his voice, his smell.”

Irah nodded. “That is enough, then. The meeting will be held within the coming days, if the storms don’t hold off the ships until then. I chose this island because it faces the common Roman sailing lanes. If we have someone awake at all times, we should not miss it. Now…” She turned toward the forest behind them, head arched back as storm clouds rolled in. “It’s time to practice.”

Practice, for Irah, meant sparring and weapons training for the crew. They trained on the beach for hours, even in downpours—so long as the lightning wasn’t too close. They wrestled in beast form, turned the sand to mud, tore for each other's throats. They practiced with knives, swords, bows, any proper weapon at their disposal.

Except for Abiyad. Over the next several days, Irah would take him further down the beach, away from the crew, and teach him how to fight.

“You lack restraint,” she told him as she pummeled him into the mud once more. “Discipline.” She’d broken his nose, and blood gushed into his mouth even as it healed itself. With a powerful kick, she sent him to his knees, and he choked on his own tongue. “You need to learn to fight properly, not as a scrappy child in the streets.”

She stood over him with a disgusted scowl, and he snarled back, all teeth. While she hadn’t morphed, he had to in order to increase his mobility. But somehow, she was still faster than him. As he lunged for the third time, she roundhouse kicked him in the face, sending him rolling. He hit the rocky beach with a crunch, his shoulder smarting, and he wheezed as his bones realigned themselves. 

_Unnatural, unnatural._ He swore she was actually beating the piss out of him to test the limits of his healing. Considering he’d been struck by lightning and survived, he was most likely unkillable. At least, he hoped so, if he wanted to take down the general.

He would not make the same mistake he’d made in Nirvasyl.

Still, Irah was craftier than him. She’d never told Abiyad her age, but given how old her child should be, she had to be at least forty. Stray gray hairs peppered her dark hair when she pulled it back. He’d never met a woman who could fight like her before. Where had she learned? And who’d taught her?

He laughed under his breath, spitting blood. “I told you, it doesn’t matter how I fight. When I become the Boneshaker, I just rip off heads.”

“And I told you,” she slammed her boot against his chest, knocking another breath from him. “That form isn’t sustainable for long periods of time. You’re exhausted every time you come out of it, practically gasping for air and unable to move for a good fifteen minutes. A Byzantine soldier could easily come up and behead you in that time. Would you like to test that? See just how indestructible this body of yours is?”

He shoved her off, claws aimed for her face. “I’ll make it last!”

She flipped backwards with the nimbleness of a theater player. “You will not! There isn’t enough time for you to learn how to control the Boneshaker, so you must save that power for when we need it most. Understand?”

Her hair flew wildly behind her, like a lion’s mane. A steady patter of rain splashed them both, and Abiyad dug his paws into the sand. She was right, he knew that, and he didn’t even like becoming the Boneshaker, but if he was going to kill the general, then he needed to master the skill now.

“In the meantime,” Irah continued, striding forward and offering a hand to help him stand, “You need to learn to fight without it. Just because you’re a Beastman doesn’t mean anything to these humans. They’re strong, well trained. Their weapons and armor advance faster every year, and their population grows while ours diminishes.”

Abiyad allowed her to help him up, and instantly tensed as pain laced through him. Having a body that could heal apparently didn’t mean he was immune to pain. In fact, it seemed like he felt it more acutely than before. It tended to linger, especially in his scars, which always ached to some degree. When larger injuries healed, he often felt an intense hunger, as if he’d been fasting for a week. He couldn’t quite explain it.

“I don’t need to know how to fight,” he hissed, rubbing his sore shoulders. “That general killed me because I was weak. I’m not weak now.”

Irah’s lips parted in confusion. “Killed you? What does that mean?”

Thunder rolled overhead, and Abiyad’s head jerked up. Seeing through his foolish heart, Irah snatched his arm, clawed fingers piercing his skin. With a snarl, Abiyad rounded on her, wolf teeth snapping as she slammed her open palm against his forehead and shoved him back. He howled his rage, clawing at her as the strong scent of blood filled his nostrils. But Irah didn’t cry out, instead, she bared sharp canines and kept her iron hold without so much of a flinch.

“Do not transform now!” she barked. “It's reckless! You spent, what, three months constantly shifting back and forth? The only reason you’re still alive is because that body won’t let you die!”

“You’re wrong!” He bit her arm, and she let out a feline yowl, but still wouldn’t let go. Her edges blurred like she might morph but she never did. 

Why? _Why?_ He itched for a fight. A real one, not these pathetic sparing lessons she insisted upon. It didn’t matter if he didn’t know how to fight—he just needed to know how to kill.

And he was good at killing.

Curling his hindquarters, he kicked her off again. She landed harder than expected, letting out a harsh _oomph_ , and that’s when Hildr appeared. 

“Stupid pup! What do you think you’re doing?” She tackled Abiyad, grabbing him around the abdomen and pinning him. One paw on his right arm, the other on his throat. She pressed her hind claws into his leg, shifting her weight so that he couldn’t move. 

That set it off. The Boneshaker.

Abiyad’s throat scar burned, so hot that it felt as if he might melt. He roared, and a bright light flashed, blinding Hildr and everyone around them. Abiyad’s muscles rolled as he transformed, stretching and grinding. 

Hildr leapt off him, yelping, “Hot, hot, hot!” 

Steam rose from the Boneshaker, and snaps of lighting flicked off his fur. His vision tunneled onto Hildr, and he snapped at her, his fangs barely missing her tail as she flung herself to the side. She was nimble and fast, but it wouldn’t matter against him. He had the power, the ability to destroy. He could break her in half with one snap of his jaws, sheer her flesh from her bones in one fell swoop.

“Ivaylo!” Irah. She stood, her hair askew, as a harsh wind rushed in. “Ivaylo, stop!”

He rounded on her, body bristling and gums showing. “And why should I?” His voice was distorted in this form. It didn’t belong to him; it wasn’t him. He was just so angry, so filled to the brim with it that it felt as though it were leaking through his skin.

Irah sat up with a snarl of her own. For a moment, that made him pause. So far, whenever he’d become the Boneshaker, whoever was near either began to pray, or they ran from him in fear. Irah was the only one who ever stood still, steady, and just watched.

Now she grabbed his nose, shoving his muzzle down. “You are a fool,” she hissed, seething with so much negative energy that it startled him. “You already shake with the exhaustion of it.”

His forelimbs did quiver, and he let out a half-baked snarl, right as the Boneshaker’s form slipped from his hold. He tried to grab it back, but the blood already gushed from his nostrils. He collapsed onto his side, human once again. 

Irah tossed his tunic over his lap, but he shook so badly he couldn’t even try to lift it over his head. The rain was suddenly colder, like ice, and he couldn’t. Stop. Shaking.

“I hate you,” he seethed, though he did not mean it. Not fully. “I’ll kill you too, and everyone on this damn island, and then—”

“Oh shut up.” Irah slammed one boot to his hip as she jerked him by the hair and forced him to sit upright. “Do not transform again.” Her voice shook, and her hair had fallen from its tail, creating a half-shield around her battered face. 

Abiyad’s own breathing was laborious, hitching as he struggled to inhale. His eyes were still wild, burning, and sand coated his skin. “You can’t control me.” Pain ran up his spine, and he yelped as she yanked his hair again.

“It's reckless! That power is too much for you!”

“No!” Abiyad struggled beneath her, but he was so exhausted…steam still rose off his body. “I need it. I’ll master it. I need it to kill the general.”

“You do not need the powers of a god to kill one man!” she snapped. “I don’t know your story, or what happened to you. You don’t have to tell me how you became as you are, but you are a _boy_. A child with no sense at all, and someone who will destroy himself if you keep this up. You don’t know how far your healing abilities can be pushed, correct?”

The words stung, but he nodded.

“Then who’s to say you can’t die? If you hurt yourself badly enough, you just might perish. Don’t do that to yourself.”

She finally stepped off him, allowing him to hold himself up as he coughed. Blood trickled down his nose, dripping into a spiral against the wet sand.

It wasn’t the storms that followed him, no, it was blood. He’d never be rid of it.

Clenching his jaw, he stumbled to his feet. God, he hurt. Everywhere. He had the joints of an old man, aching, burning. 

“I don’t care if I die.” His voice was low, tinged in an animalistic growl. In a blink, he morphed his hands into claws and sliced his forearm open with the precision of a butcher. Blood spurted, dripping, and he shoved the wound at Irah. Despite all logic, all the laws of nature, it began to heal. 

“Look at this? Is this natural? Can you do that? Not even the strongest Beastmen can, only me. I have to find the general! That man you think is so easy to kill? He murdered my entire family, destroyed my home, and then he killed _me_!”

He pointed to the brutal, silver scar that marked the space just below his pectorals. At night, it often ached, like the spear still skewered him. “You see this? This is how he killed me!” His voice clenched, twisted, as his throat threatened to break with a sob. “He shoved a cavalry spear so far into my body that it hoisted me into the air like I was on a pike, and my own blood made it easier to slide further and further down the shaft. Then he forced me on my knees, sliced my throat to the bone, and left me to rot!”

Wetness stained his cheeks. He’d tried to hold the tears in, to not let the emotions consume him, but he couldn’t. Not anymore. Bitter tears poured over his cheeks, a steady stream, and it _hurt_. Everything hurt, from the salt in the air prickling his skin, to the harsh squeeze of his heart that shouldn’t even be beating. 

It hurt so bad, he couldn’t stand it. 

Why hadn’t he stayed dead?

Digging claws into his chest, his lungs heaved with sob after sob. He hadn’t had a chance to cry, to mourn what he’d lost. He could still hear the soldiers’ cruel laughs. Every single moment, he relived that cursed night.

Blood trickled between his claws, down his abdomen, but the cuts wouldn’t stay open. He released a scream, suddenly furious. Sometimes, he wanted to end it all himself, but the spirits wouldn’t let him. Every day they howled their injustice, and their claws hooked into his soul, refusing to let him go. 

This was his duty, his purpose.

He had no other reason for living.

“I didn’t ask for this.” His breaths came in heavy, shaking with every exhale. He couldn’t get enough air. “I didn’t ask for this body, for these powers! I didn’t want to be your damned god! I just wanted to stay with my family!”

“Ivaylo—” Irah started, her cat eyes wide.

“My name is Abiyad!” He beat a fist against the rocks, slicing his skin, and she backed off. “I don’t need your words, I don’t need you, I don’t need anyone!”

But he was growing dizzy, most likely due to not having breathed like a normal person for several minutes. His chest felt like it was going to burst, and he fell to his knees with a choke. Irah crouched beside him, and she snatched his red hands as he tried to tear his own skin.

The sounds he made were awful, she’d later tell him. She’d never witnessed such madness, such grief. Not from another person. But she recognized it within herself, and that’s why she held him. As Abiyad wailed against the sand, she locked her long arms around his shoulders to keep him from harming himself.

Her soft cheek pressed into the top of his head. “Stop,” she whispered. “It won’t help.”

Snot mingled with his tears, and he was too exhausted to argue with her. Her nails ran through the waves of his hair, much like how Mother had done to him when he was a child. It only made him cry more, because he hadn’t been allowed to mourn her publicly. If he was to cry over his mother, he was to do it alone, in his room, where no one could see. How dare he embarrass his father for such behavior.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t know who he apologized to. His father, his mother, Helene, Irah, the crew, the spirits haunting his mind.

Or perhaps, it was to himself.

\---

Abiyad slept for three days, and in that time, he dreamed. 

Dreams of his family, when he was a child. How Mother used to carry him to visit the newborn foals so he could pet their soft necks. When Helene was born, and how small she’d been. He hadn’t wanted her at first, but it didn’t take long for that to change.

He’d had friends. Boys who were as hell bent on becoming warriors as he was. They’d play with mock swords in the shepherd fields and ride ponies over the hills until the poor beasts were lathered in sweat.

And then the dreams changed. They became dark, festering, like an infection. Teeth gnashed against his skin, pulling him to all sides, until he was torn apart and thrown to the wayside in bits of bone and flesh.

Voices. So many voices.

**_Avenge us, avenge us. Why do you dally? The general will get away. You must get up._ **

And that damned white wolf stared at him. Always.

“Get out of my head!”

He bolted upright, gasping for breath. Sweat rolled down his brow, his chin, and his tunic clung to him like a second skin. 

“Abiyad?”

He flinched. Looked up. He was in a tent of some kind, and darkness had crept inside. His eyes adjusted to find Irah peering at him, the front flap folded over her shoulder as she crouched.

His breathing was sharp, heavy. Lips dry. “Where am I?”

Irah’s amber eyes searched him, but she didn’t question what he’d been dreaming about. “We’re still on the island. I was just coming to check on you, because the ships have arrived.”

Abiyad rubbed his eyes. “The ships…?”

It all came back in one fell swoop. Irah, Hildr, the pain…

He’d tried to kill them.

Gods damn him.

Hands shaking, he stuffed them into his sleeves. “How long was I asleep?”

“Three days.” Her eyes were dull, distant, and her scent had changed to something cold. “We didn’t really know what to do with you, if you could survive like that on your own. You haven’t had anything to eat or drink in all that time.”

At the mention of food, his stomach growled. He sighed and crawled forward as Irah stepped back, and she offered her hand to help him stand, but he didn’t need it.

He felt…good. Physically. He stared at his hands, turning them over. Free of blood, of calluses. Like they were brand new. Startled, he touched his throat, but no, the scar was still there. Always there, like a damned collar.

He turned to Irah, who continued to watch him with concern. The wind snapped at her hair, tugging stray strands across her brow. “You seem…different. Perhaps that sleep was what you needed.”

A _hmm_ was his response. He turned toward the sea, where distantly, he could make out the dark shapes of narrow Byzantine ships heading east.

Just like Irah had predicted.

A thought occurred to him. He turned to her again, a snarl on his lips. “You wanted to attack the Grand Palace, but why not take down those boats right now?”

Her jaw dropped. “What? Now? Are you mad? We can’t! We don’t have the manpower!”

A sly smile burned it’s way across Abiyad’s lips. He flexed his hands, feeling the ease of his joints. “I think we do.”

\---

“He’s insane,” Hildr rumbled. “Maybe that’s what truly makes a god. They do shit like this.”

They’d set the longboat into the water, Abiyad at the forefront. He’d stripped the top of his tunic so that it cinched his waist, and he wore no shoes so he could feel the shift of water beneath the boat.

 _Focus. Concentrate._ He breathed slow, in and out. The Byzantine ships were just in sight. 

“Don’t do this,” Irah had pleaded to him on that beach. “It’s madness. You want to send a warning? I don’t…I don’t know if you can survive it. I can’t—” She’d been cut off by a small sob, which had startled Abiyad. The only time he’s seen her cry was when she talked about her boy.

He’d placed his hands on her shoulders. Squeezed them tight. “I have to.”

Somehow, that sleep had been a cleansing. Or maybe it was the fit he’d had during training. Or both. Whichever, he felt new again. Whole. Like whatever imbalance had been inside him was unblocked now.

A storm rolled behind them. The hairs on Abiyad’s arms quivered at the approach, and thunder rolled in the distance.

He morphed. The wind tugged at his fur, blowing it behind him. The Byzantines hadn’t noticed them, and they wouldn’t for a few more minutes, but the moment they did, Irah was to ditch him and head toward Constantinople. 

“I’ll meet you when I’m finished,” he’d told her. “It shouldn’t take long.”

Water sprayed, the boat rocked. Winds tore at his hair.. 

Abiyad closed his eyes and breathed. _Help me. Please._

All at once, the spirits inside him became alive. At the time, he couldn’t differentiate between them. They all sounded the same, tortured and lonely, panicked and frightened.

Except for one.

**Tell me what to do.**

He didn’t know it was…her. Not then. He didn’t recognize her voice, for one, and she had no smell. Her presence wasn’t a visual, just a feeling.

_I need to destroy the boats. Help me control the Boneshaker._

He didn’t know how to explain it, but he swore the spirit smiled. **With pleasure.**

The burning started in his throat, at the scar. Electricity sparked, the wind stilled.

His nose didn’t bleed. The spirit hooked claws into him, and with a roar, he transformed. 

It was different this time. He didn’t destroy his tunic, because he became a ball of bright, pure energy. Just for a few seconds, and then the form stretched into the Boneshaker. 

For several moments, he hovered in the air. Lightning struck beside him, electrifying the sea. Cries came from both Irah’s crew and the Byzantine ships. 

This felt different, than before. The Boneshaker had never felt “correct”, but now it was…fitting. Like it was made for him specifically.

_Thank you._

**Now what?**

Abiyad bared his teeth. The Byzantines had rushed to the sides of their boats, some staring at him with their jaws agape. 

_We destroy them._

With the speed of a fighter jet, he rained down on them. Somewhere deep inside him, instinct told his body how to transform again, creating sharp edges with the blades along his shoulders and the knife-like cut of his tail. 

Like a star, he ripped through the ships as if they were nothing.

The ships cracked, groaned, and men howled as they were thrown into the sea. Abiyad landed on the remains of one, balancing on the rims. Several humans rushed him with swords, but he battered them away with his claws or broke them into pieces with his teeth.

He was too quick for them to know what’d happened. 

The sea ran red. Any survivors clung to driftwood, but were ultimately eaten by sharks. Abiyad didn’t have the time or patience to dwell on that, and as the humans’ screams filled the seas, he set his sights toward Constantinople. 

**I do not sense the general,** the spirit said. **I do not think he is here.**

_Then we will find him in the city._

**No, I mean—**

With a surge of electrical energy, he bolted into the air again. To anyone watching, it was like watching a comet shoot across the sky, too bright and fast to comprehend.

Irah’s boat hadn’t drifted far, and he wasn’t good at judging distances yet, so when he melted back into human form, he crashed into the sail, causing all the women to scream. Hildr caught him before he bashed his skull against the prow.

“Abiyad!” 

Irah rushed forward as Hildr sat him on the floor, and when he opened his eyes, he broke into laughter. Actual, genuine laughter. Such a sound hadn’t leapt from him in eons. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like, the ache in his lungs and ribs.

He scrambled to his feet, snatching the tunic Hildr handed him. “It worked! Irah, it worked!”

“I see that.” Her startled eyes watched the broken Byzantine ships crumble into the Marmara. “And your nose isn’t bleeding.”

Abiyad touched it on impulse. Oh. She was right. No blood.

And he didn’t feel exhausted. Not yet.

He grinned, something feral and dangerous, like a wolf in a children’s storybook come to devour. It caused the nearest women to edge back, but he didn’t care. He was alight with adrenaline, drunk on the power he’d just displayed.

It felt good. It made him strong, powerful. He wasn’t weak anymore, no, he would destroy the Grand Palace, hells, he’d destroy the whole damn city.

Constantinople was just in reach.

\---

Constantinople in those days was a city armed to the teeth, and was considered unconquerable by its contemporaries. The Grand Palace was even more so, and it resided just on the edge of the sea. Not only was it a palace, but it housed religious temples, and at its back, was a great Hippodrome, where the emperor spent his free time watching chariot races. The grounds were set up in various pavilions with the palace in the center, each surrounded by an inner wall.

They would not matter. 

Storm clouds followed Irah’s longboat, and Abiyad stood at the helm, atop the dragon figurehead carved into the ship. His skin prickled with anticipation, and he was so focused on the walls ahead, that he didn’t notice the falcon flying overhead.

But Irah did.

“Abiyad,” she hissed. “I don’t think those ships were what I said they were.”

He barely heard her. The walls were closing in, but more Byzantine ships had noticed their approach. A bell tolled, and the water crested as the ships turned toward them. They’d been patrolling the walls, and if they were to encounter any unknown ships, they were to engage in battle. Even from this distance, Abiyad could make out a parade of crossbows. These ships were called dromons, and they were massive, long enough to hold up to 160 humans with a flurry of oars on either side. 

But this was the age before gunpowder and explosives. Battle tactics at sea were cautious, predictable.

And anything resembling a galley ship was easily overturned in the right weather.

He’d just have to avoid the catapults.

No pressure.

“You head toward the wall,” he told Irah. “I’ll break through once I deal with the fleet.”

“Abiyad, please, listen to me,” Irah insisted. “This plan—I don’t think it will work. Those ships weren’t—”

He snapped his hellfire gaze on her. “You were the one who came up with this! Now you want to retreat? When we’ve made it this far?”

His glare pinned them all, but Hildr spoke up, “What is it, Irah? What’s changed?”

Irah jerked her chin up, where the hawk flew. “It’s a messenger. Trader ships like the magistrate’s have pigeons, not falcons. Only the military leaders do.”

“Then that means the man I’m after is here,” Abiyad hissed. 

“No, it doesn’t,” Irah shot back. “He wasn’t on those ships, correct? And if my boy’s murderer isn't here, then I will not stay. We can go back to the island and wait a few more days. Regroup.”

No. No, they couldn’t. The fleet was closing in now, and even if they were cautious at first, Abiyad’s hatred was so strong, so red, that he would burst on the spot. 

“He could be inside,” Abiyad’s hiss was like a serpent's, deadly and full of venom. 

Thunder rolled behind them. The galleys bobbed. 

**Brother.**

A surge of cyan light curled around him, making his clothes and hair rise as if he were trapped in a strong wind.

**I will not help you if you do this. The general is not here. Those men were innocent.**

“They weren’t.” Wrath coated him like a cloak. “And I don’t care.”

In a blinding flash, he was the Boneshaker once more. The spirit didn’t offer her aid, didn’t hook herself to him, but he didn’t need her to. Even when his nose gushed blood, he rocketed off the longboat with the full intent to kill every human in that harbor.

He destroyed every single ship. The arrows pierced him, their blades cut him to the bone, but he healed so fast that it didn’t matter. 

The pain was dull. Distant. 

He tore an admiral’s head off, the gore spraying into his fur and around his muzzle like a painted smile. The nearest humans fell back, retching into the sea.

They were next. Their fear scents clouded the air. He finally pinned one beneath long claws, and the soldier made a noise so full of terror that it was a wonder it didn’t shake the seas.

**THE GENERAL IS NOT HERE, ABIYAD.**

He ignored her. Ripped the human in half, feeling the _clak-clak-clak_ of his teeth scraping against vertebrae, and tossed the corpse to the sharks. 

**LISTEN TO ME.**

_How do you know?_ He could not roar in his own mind—but his rage filled him enough that she knew.

**His energy is not here, and when we last saw him, he was leading an army north. Bibi—we went the wrong way. Please, stop this. It won’t help.**

No.

NO.

He had to be here. He had to. Otherwise, all of this was for nothing. 

But she was right. Abiyad knew it, deep in his bones, and perhaps he’d known it this entire time. The ships were mostly empty now, and what remaining humans were left, swam toward the palace walls. 

And no scent of the general.

He whipped his muzzle around with a snarl. Had things gone his way, he would have ripped through the walls too. He might have even made it to the Grand Palace and slaughtered the emperor.

But he was weak without the spirit’s help. He hadn’t mastered the Boneshaker, not really.

So when a catapult struck him with a massive stone, almost as big as he was, he fell into the rocking seas. The pain didn’t register at first. It’d shattered his jaw, broken his ribs.

A ringing split his ears.

He couldn’t hold the form any longer. It was too much—it might have actually killed him, if he didn’t let go. 

There was no strength for swimming, and the sharks closed in.

\---

Abiyad woke with the urge to vomit.

He did so, but it was mostly water.

Though to be fair, everything was mostly water. Rain poured, thick and cold. He lay beneath a tree, and Irah sat not far away atop a large boulder. A beach was nearby, and he couldn’t see beyond the docked longboat.

Gray. Endless, endless gray.

Where…?

“You are a fool.”

Abiyad’s head snapped up. Irah wouldn’t look at him; her face was cast toward the sea, toward Constantinople. The city was in uproar; he could hear the shouts and calls even from here.

Abiyad grit his teeth. His arms shook so badly that he couldn’t even sit up properly. “This was your idea. _Yours_.”

A croaked laugh escaped her, and Irah rested her hands over her eyes. “As you’ve mentioned before, but it was also you who came southeast. Not I. That is your own fault.”

“Oh shut up!” He beat his fist against the sand. “I hope you rot in the hells, and so does your entire crew. Every last one of you. Especially Hildr. I’d love to see what her pathetic gods think of her now.”

The words were meant to cut like a butcher’s knife, precise and clean. But Irah remained silent, lips pursed, but a deep, aching sadness had etched into her face. For a split second, Abiyad could finally see her age. The years of torment that lingered in her posture, her eyes.

“A pity that you feel that way,” was all she said.

Abiyad finally managed to stand, though his legs felt like jelly. Whatever blood he’d acquired in the sea battle, most had washed off or mixed into his hair. The painted smile dribbled down his throat, all the way to his chest scar.

“Again,” he hissed. “We try again. In Bulgaria, this time. I’ll find the general, I swear it.”

Like a whip-crack, Irah turned on him. “You have a sickness in you! Not a physical one, but in here!” She pointed at her chest, to her heart. “You cannot go on like this! This anger, this rage—”

“You know nothing!” he snapped back. “Nothing of what I feel, of what he did to me! I _died_ , and I should have stayed dead, but I didn’t, because I have to kill him!”

“I do know! You know I do! But this…this isn’t the way. I see that now. I never expected _this_!” She thrust her arm out to the destroyed ships, to the chaos at the Grand Palace. “I wanted revenge for my boy, and it’s eaten me alive for years upon years. I’ve ruined relationships of all kinds over it, wasted my life for this and—”

She choked on a sob, and turned away, head in her hands.

She didn’t understand. She never would. No one would. No one had been brought back like he had. No one else had spirits with hooks inside them, continually chanting for him to avenge them.

They would not rest, and neither would he. This anger, it was the only thing keeping him alive. If he didn’t have it, then he would fall into despair like he had on the beach. His mind would be consumed with the memories, the almosts, the I-should-haves. 

He beat his fist against his chest. “I am the storm! _Me_! If this body is an unbreakable vessel, then by the gods, I’ll become a hurricane! I’ll tear down this city, this entire country, the entire world if I have to, if it means I can finish the job! If you won’t help me, then leave!”

He heaved for breath, and the tightness in his throat made him wince. He grasped his neck, clenched it, feeling the slick slice of a sword as if it were happening all over again.

And again. And again. And again and again andagainandagainandagainandagain—

Irah didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She sat still, her hands empty, her eyes shining with tears as the rain poured, drenching her hair, her clothes. “Fine. If it will teach you the lesson you so desperately need, then I will go. I will not follow you into hell.”

Abiyad blinked. “Wait, Irah—” His voice was hoarse, barely heard over the rushing wind. “Irah!”

But she’d already turned her back to him and marched toward the longboat and what remained of her crew. Her stride was long, so she reached it in moments, and not once did she turn back.

And just like the night Nirvasyl burned, Abiyad was left alone in his own misery.

\---

Shirou swiveled in the desk chair, watching the rain dissolve into a soft patter. The storm had passed, for now, but the leftover droplets still clung to the hotel windows. 

Michiru didn’t speak for a long moment. In fact, he was too afraid to look at her. Her scent was off; a deep hurt clung to her, but she wasn’t injured of course. Not physically.

She coughed. “And?”

He looked at her upside down as he leaned back in the chair. “And what?”

The remains of her room service order threatened to tip off the bed as she jumped up, cheeks puffed. “That’s not the end! Don’t act like it is!”

“My throat hurts. I don’t want to tell anymore.”

His voice was hoarse, and Michiru flinched. “Oh. Um, well…”

“I’ll continue another time. I promise.” He hadn’t meant for that last bit to come out, and she gasped. 

“A promise? For real?”

Shirou sighed and rested one leg on the edge of the bed. “Yeah. For real. But I don’t think it’s healthy to dwell on these things for extended periods of time.”

Michiru nodded. She’d grabbed a pillow to hug at some point, and Kuro perched on her head as she settled into the bedsheets again. Both of them seemed a little weary after a tale like that. Damn, he was too. A lot of the details he’d forgotten, but once he’d started dredging up the old memories, it came back in full clarity.

**I may have helped.**

Shirou sucked in a breath. He hadn’t sensed Helene’s presence, but now she was right there. 

_And what do you know about that?_

A soft, distant chuckle. Like an echo. **You forget that my memory is impeccable. Unlike yours.**

He scowled, nails digging into his crossed arms. 

“So, about Irah…” Michiru whispered. She’d hugged the pillow closer. “She…she left you. Did you ever see her again?” Her eyes were bright with hope, as if there was somehow a happy ending to this story. 

There wasn’t, and Shirou wasn’t about to lie to her. “No. I never saw her again.”

Michiru’s ears drooped, and Kuro cooed at her. “Oh. And...what about Constantinople? What happened then?”

“Consequences. For another tale.”

“Ah. Do the spirits still talk to you?”

“No.”

A lie, of course, but he wasn’t about to mention Helene again if he could help it. He could feel her pressed close to the front, curious and delighted for whatever reason, but she didn’t speak.

Michiru sighed heavily. “You were right. That was a sad story.”

Shirou leaned forward to pat her on the head. It was a rough pat, and Michiru jumped at his touch. “These stories aren’t meant to be happy. They rarely will be anything but hardship. I’m sorry if it makes you…upset.”

She nodded, slowly, as his hand slipped away. “No, it’s okay. I’m glad you told me this one too. It makes things…more insightful.” Her smile was genuine, but not the bright one it normally was. This too, was sad, and Shirou’s heart ached.

The Beastmen called him a god. They praised him for saving them, bringing them out of darkness.

But he also seemed to bring darkness wherever he went. Especially in those early days when his heart had no room for love, or kindness, or understanding. 

Sometimes, it felt like it still didn’t.

“The storm finally stopped.”

Shirou lifted his head. “Yeah. It did.”

A sly grin spread across Michiru’s face, and she morphed into human form. “I think we should go into the city now! Lighten the mood and all that! What can you even do in Seoul?”

Shirou didn’t budge. “But it’s getting late.”

“Oh come on, you stingy dog!” She hopped off the bed and shoved his hoodie over his head, making him scramble to grab the bed so he didn’t bust his head open. “We’re on vacation! Let’s do vacation things!”

“Michiru,” he growled, but pulled the hoodie on anyway as she snatched her shoes. Was there really a point in arguing with her at this point?

She was right, of course. They needed to go out. The room couldn’t be left to fester with bad energy. 

**Have some fun for once, you old man.**

_Shut up, brat._

An impression of a teasing smile filled his head, and he found himself smiling too.

“Okay. Fine.” He stood and grabbed his gloves right as Michiru spun in an excited circle. “There’s several historic sights I want to show you.”

“Really?” She whined. “More history?”

“You’re the one who demanded I share my entire life story with you.” He nudged her shoulder, and she stuck her tongue out with a grin. 

He had to let Kuro out through the window, but once that was done, they were off. 

And the evening couldn’t have been brighter.

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SORRY THIS TOOK FOR-HECKING-EVER TO FINISH but it's finally here! Thank you for reading this far!! I hope you all liked it!! Don't forget to leave a kudos and/or comment if you did! Thanks for all the support while I worked on this as well. It means the world. <3
> 
> I have ART UPDATES.  
> [ Here ](https://rowdyredriot.tumblr.com/post/628550961848270848/some-bitob-eoe-sketchesconcepts-shirous)&[ here. ](https://rowdyredriot.tumblr.com/post/627101982046470144/sometimes-it-still-hurts-inspired-by-a-scene-i)
> 
> [ Tumblr ](https://rowdyredriot.tumblr.com/) / [ Twitter ](https://twitter.com/FaindriArt)


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